The Return of Mrs Fussyknickers

” I’m really happy with most of the pages but would just like a to make a few small changes.” So said the email this afternoon from Mrs Fussyknickers.

‘A few small changes’  turned out to be half the album – back to the original.  WHAAAATTTT??!!

At least  she had the grace to be embarrassed and when I told her I would have to charge her for changing it yet again,  she insisted on almost doubling the amount I asked for. Can’t argue with that, can you? So I didn’t.

This afternoon was another fun filled day at the pleasure dome. I made the mistake of popping into the factory before scooping up the dog and going for a walk. “I really need you on a machine.”



So much for my walk and shopping. Sigh.

Wearing Boofuls’ white coat as I’d left mine at home,  I got back on my perch at the pot filling maching. Pick up, squirt, put down. Over and over and over again.  Once you’ve been on the machine for a little while it becomes almost hypnotic. As I was being lulled by the hissing and popping of the machine I suddenly noticed the pots seemed to be a bit over full. Rather than the 75 mls it was supposed to be spitting out it was right up to the top of the pot. Oh crap!!

Frantic adjustments took place at breakneck speed as I’d been whistling through them at a good old pace. The next thing I knew was that the machine decided to deposit a litre of liquid into my lap, my face, my hair, all over the table,  itself and the floor. It positively flew out of the machine and bounced off  and then back onto every available surface.  DAGNABBIT!

The colour of the day today was bright yellow.  I looked like  Marge Simpson.   All I needed was the blue hair and  we could have passed for twins.  Once I realised how ridiculous I looked I got a fit of the giggles. The Polish staff looked on in amazement as they thought I’d reached the point of hysteria. I’m almost certain I saw them drawing names out of a hat to see who’d get to slap me first.  I took a deep breath and bit my lip until the laughter subsided. Laughing till I cry in front of the staff might make them think I’m a bit mad.

We’re developing a new language at work.

You’ve heard of Spanglish – a mix of English and Spanish which is spoken in Mexico, You’ve heard of – and probably actually heard if you’ve ever been put through to a call centre in India, Hinglish. Well, we have our own unique language at the factory. It’s called Ponglish — Polish and English. It seems to be working well, all except for the two Russian ladies who can only really talk to each other. One of them I call Pagoda. It’s not her real name but her real name seems to be beyond me and Pagoda is the nearest I can get to it. She even answers to it now!   Oo-er, I’ve just had a thought, I hope it isn’t a rude word in Russian!


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